Author's Notes: As everything in my life tends to be, this is all Alamo Girl's fault. :) Thanks, as always, for the glorious discussions, prompts and fandom you-know-whats. You're the best.

Huge thanks as well to SpikesSweetie and Meredith Paris, for being made of awesome.

This one's for Allie, just because I can, and just because Abby/Norris FTW.

She has a habit of looking over her shoulder. It's as though she expects she'll turn around one day and he won't be there.

He'd be lying if he said there weren't times when he asked himself why he agreed to do this. He'd be foolish not to admit that there weren't moments when he wishes he had turned down the request to become official bodyguard to the princess. It's not just different logistically--although there is an enormous distinction between protecting a royal versus the Mystic Man--but the world around him has changed since he was a Tin Man. He has changed. He understands why there are those who question the Crown's loyalty to their subjects; why there are those who wish to harm his charge and her family.

There are times when he remembers being one of them.

This was the family who, at one time in his estimation, had abandoned the Zone. The Queen and Consort had all but disappeared after the Coup; had allowed their murderous daughter--with one body already to her name in the form of the youngest princess--to morph into a dictator. The eldest princess's face is the one he saw in his nightmares; her associations are the ones who took his wife and son from him. There are still times when he has difficulty distinguishing between then and now. He's caught himself looking at Azkadellia and doesn't see a possessed, lost little girl but instead, a coldhearted murderer.

Which is why he couldn't look himself in the mirror for days after he agreed to become her official bodyguard.

Something cold, divisive and numbing--too much like being inside the Iron Maiden--still churns icily in his stomach when he recalls the evening DG asked the impossible. He still sees the flash of surprise and hurt in her eyes when he recalls how quickly--how angrily, so much like the man she'd let out of the suit months before--he'd told her, in no uncertain terms, he couldn't do what she was requesting.

He still tastes the guilty words on his tongue that lashed out at the only Gale he could conceivably air his grievances to. How could she, of all people--the only person in this godforsaken hellhole masquerading as a world who knew him at all, who knew what he'd been through--could ask him to protect the woman who'd sentenced so many to death?

It was as though gasoline had cascaded on a longing and anticipatory spark, and the erupting conflagration was inevitable. It fueled everything he'd wanted to say since discovering DG's lineage, since the day at the cave in Finaqua: Yes, DG, it was your fault the Witch possessed Azkadellia. My wife is dead because of your sister. And now you want me to protect her? You're out of your mind, kid.

He still winces, and his chest still tightens as though he's suffocating--trapped again, but this time, his punishment is of his own making--when he remembers her crystalline eyes turning the same shade of navy as the dusky night that surrounded them as her tears formed. She'd surprised him by nodding toward the horizon for a moment, and then turning to face him with as determined a countenance as he'd ever seen--mostly from Adora when he'd really screwed up.

DG's voice had been hoarse but stable as she agreed with him.

It wasn't her tears that snuffed out the embers of his anger, leaving him wrapped in momentary but smoldering confusion; it was her agreement about her role in the current Ozian climate. She'd squared her jaw and stepped back toward him, stood toe to toe and looked up at him with both acknowledgement and a burden in her eyes that cowed him even without her saying another word.

But she'd continued to speak, telling him that she knew she was just as responsible, if not more so, for the atrocities currently befalling the Zone, and she had to do something to make things right. And she would, as soon as her family was safe.

She'd stared unblinkingly at him, silently defied him to argue that protecting her family wasn't the most important thing, knowing full well he'd do no such thing. He'd done everything--would do anything--to shelter his loved ones from harm. He'd sighed heavily, crossing his arms and dropping his chin to his chest. His fedora had hidden his face and emotions from her, but it hadn't mattered; she'd placed a hand on his arm and felt the tension ebbing into resignation. Her voice softened to the tone she'd used with Raw and Glitch the day they'd stormed the tower as she said that she understood--painfully, if the hitch in her voice was any indication--that he hadn't signed on for anything other than navigator and sometimes Mobat shooter. He'd wanted to smile at the reference, but was enthralled by her sincerity, her seriousness, her siren song-like alto voice, and remembers wondering if this was how the Sorceress got the Longcoats to do her bidding.

"And yet, here you are," she'd said, motioning to the balcony on which they stood, "still here with me. And here I am, asking you the most unfair of questions. To do the most difficult of jobs."

He'd shaken his head and exhaled sharply, finally looking directly at her. "Why me?"

The look in her eyes had told him that he should have known why he'd be entrusted with the care of the heir to the throne. He was capable, trustworthy, and had already proven he could be in the same room with Azkadellia without trying to kill her. He was certain there were few people in the O.Z. these days who would match a similar description. But he also knew that just because he could do a job didn't mean he should.

But just as he'd guided her through the Zone, she eased him through his internal war. "Because, even if she were just a normal princess and there were a thousand bodyguards lined up at the gates who were ready and willing to take the job, we'd still only trust you to keep her safe."

An uncomfortably heavy weight settled on his chest as he seriously pondered her request; one, he figured, borne of conflicted acquiescence and the understandable desire to reject her proposal. He'd bowed to her then, the first time he'd done so since the night of the Eclipse (for she'd told him he'd meet the business end of his own gun if he ever did it again), and told her he needed time to think.

He'd left her--first, standing on the balcony; then, in the tower. Then, in Central City. Then, behind him, with the hills and valleys camouflaging their existence from each other.

He'd ridden to the edge of the northern guilds, where his son had returned to bunk with several of his Resistance fighters in an all-too-small cabin. They'd welcomed him with the traditional mead and muglug, and the house was raucously warm, but Cain hadn't felt this distantly cold since hearing the arrival of Zero's Longcoats so many annuals before. Jeb's friends had noticed the elder Cain's dour mood, and left father and son sitting on opposite sides of the table.

They would remain that way long after Cain left the cabin.

He'd told Jeb about DG's request, and had realized just how hardened his son had become--so far before his time--when he'd casually leaned back in his chair and remarked that Azkadellia deserved whatever she got, and DG wasn't much better, using her friendship with Wyatt as the bridge to span two divides that should never be connected.

Jeb's chair had hit the floor hard, sending reverberations across the planked wood and up Cain's legs, when he'd realized his father was seriously considering protecting the woman he--and the rest of the Realm--considered to be the Sorceress. Jeb had leapt to his feet then, demanding an explanation with fire in his eyes and his knuckles clenched tightly by his sides.

Cain's words were hollow; meaningless excuses posing as ill-conceived propaganda. "She's suffered just as much as the rest of us, Jeb," he'd said, contradicting his earlier words to DG. "She was a pawn in a cruel game, just like the rest of us."

Jeb had shaken his head, lips pursing in disbelief. "She's an inhuman monster! She deserves whatever punishment man or the gods find for her. She deserves the torture and the fear that she inflicted on so many, and you're defending her! Thinking of protecting her when you couldn't even protect your own damn family! Who are you?"

It's a question that still haunts him. Even now, he has no answer, just like he did not then.

Then, at least, he had tried to explain. "I took an oath, Jeb. Just like you did when you became an officer in the Resistance." He could still hear the Tin Men Pledge in his head: Protect the innocent. Have mercy on the guilty. Serve your fellow man; have patience and understanding whether he is your enemy or your friend.

"To protect and serve the Zone, not the people who destroyed it!"

Cain had folded his hands on the table, watching the firelight dance over his weathered skin and broken soul. "You killed men. You stopped Longcoat transports going to the outskirts of the realm. Some of them probably had food, medical supplies. You don't think that had repercussions?"

The same hearth fire flashed an angry warning in Jeb's hazel eyes. "It's not the same."

"Nothing is anymore."

Jeb had started to pace then, fists wrapping his mother's scarf around his knuckles until they turned white. "Why can't you just say no?"

"Who's going to do it if I decline? You? Your men?" He'd snorted derisively. "Not very likely."

Jeb had turned on his heel, teeth clenched, tone biting. "That's not fair."

They'd sat in charged silence for what felt like an eternity before Jeb spoke again. "Why'd you come here, Father? For my blessing?"

Cain had shrugged. "To be honest, son, I don't know. Guess I thought you'd kick some sense in to me one way or the other."

Longingly and with a faraway look in his eyes, Jeb had half-smiled, albeit briefly. "Like Mother used to."

Cain nodded, and Jeb ran a hand through his hair. "She'd tell you to do it, you know."

Intrigued, Cain had tilted his head in silent, encouraging questioning.

"We had a lot of defectors over the years; mostly Longcoats who got spooked as Azkadellia got more powerful. We all thought they should be tried for treason, crimes against humanity. But when they'd come into camp, she'd knit them a blanket, learn their life's stories, make them their favorite food on their birthday. She said there'd been too much hatred. That even the most hated outcast deserves redemption."

Cain had finally started to feel warm, and smiled, staring toward the fireplace and the memory of blonde hair, dark eyes and a loving spirit. "That sounds like your mother."

Jeb sat down at the table. "I always told her she was full of shit."

"What?"

Jeb had leaned forward, propping himself against the tabletop, his index finger punctuating his tight, angry words as he spoke. "You taught me that there are some things in this world that are black and white; things that are either right or wrong. There are things you do, and then there are things you don't, under any circumstances, do. There's no in-between. Defending and protecting Azkadellia? That's something you just don't do."

Cain had exhaled sharply, disbelievingly, at the tightened vehemence coming from his son's mouth. "What if we were wrong and she was right? What if there is a shade of grey? What if all the rules we followed before don't apply now?"

Jeb again leapt from his chair, knocking it loudly to the floor. "Azkadellia is a murderer. She killed your wife. She killed the only woman I ever loved; the woman I was going to marry! Those rules always apply!"

His son's words--admission and reference to a relationship he'd never told Cain about before--deflated any counterargument Cain could come up with. They also robbed Cain of the very ability to speak, save for one word. "Jeb?"

The former Resistance leader had turned his back to his father, and was leaning heavily against the fireplace mantle. "You didn't know her. It doesn't matter now anyway."

"Son…"

"Look, you're going to do what you think is right. And if I know anything about you, you're going to make the choice I think is wrong. But it's your choice; your burden to bear. I won't stop you."

"I haven't made my mind up yet."

Finally Jeb had turned to face him, suddenly worn, aged par fast his annuals, and with a deflated, defeated look on his face. "Yes, you have. You didn't come here for me to convince you; you came here to convince me."

Vehemently, Cain shook his head and stood. "I haven't decided anything, son. And I certainly won't agree to the post if our relationship is going to suffer because of it."

Jeb had held up a hand. "No. I won't have you blaming me in the long-run, should something happen to Azkadellia or DG. You do what you need to do, Father, and I'll do the same." He'd walked to the cabin's front door and opened it without further comment, closing it the minute Cain had stepped across the threshold.

He'd ridden through a tumultuous thunderstorm to the palace, but it was a mere drizzle compared to the maelstrom churning within him.

By returning to the palace, was he essentially accepting the position? By returning, was he forgiving Azkadellia her transgressions?

Was he choosing other people's children over his own?

After stabling the horse in the barn, he'd walked the grounds around the tower, water dripping from his soaked hat brim, so deep in thought that he hadn't realized DG was sitting on the entrance steps each time he walked around the base. He'd thought about Adora; had Jeb been right in his assessment as to what she would have wanted? Would she think less of him if he took the position? Would she agree with DG and say he was the only one for the job?

Did the risks outweigh the benefits? Which was the bigger risk--the inevitable murder of the Princess Royal, Heir to the throne--or the inevitable destruction of his relationship with his son?

Finally, on his third trip around the tower, DG had stepped out from the enclave and into the rain with him. "Life is always about the lesser of two evils," she said, raindrops caressing her face as tears had earlier. "I'm so very sorry I've put you in this position, Wyatt." She'd turned as quickly as she came, striding up the steps toward the tower entrance. "Consider the request rescinded."

He'd followed her inside, his damp clothing and shoes leaving streaks in their wake. "DG, wait."

She'd shaken her head, continuing to walk to her room. He'd hurried to catch up, and grabbed her arm, swinging her to face him. She'd shaken her head, damp tendrils clinging to her cheeks. "When you left, I realized that I should have honored your first answer. I shouldn't have guilt-tripped you into this. This…tyranny has been run with people using other people; exploiting relationships that were once sacred. I can't do that to you. I won't. I care too much about you to make you do something you're so obviously uncomfortable with."

"You're not making me do anything, DG," he'd said, lowering his chin and looking her straight in the eye. "You haven't ordered me, and you haven't exploited me. You asked. You gave me the choice."

"And then I ignored your answer. What friend does that?"

"The type of friend who knows what's right; who can see the big picture." He'd searched her eyes, his face serious. "Are you certain I'm the best man for the job?"

She'd nodded without hesitation. "That's why Az asked for you."

Confusion washed over him like the summer storm raging outside. "Az asked for me?"

DG nodded again. "We were talking about security issues, and she said she'd feel safest with you."

It was then that it hit him that this Azkadellia was not the Azkadellia that had haunted his nightmares; this was not the Royal Family so many blamed for the perilous downfall of their homeland. They were just as frightened, just as shy and unsure as their people. And even in the darkest, most uncertain of times, the one person who should have been terrified of depending on anyone again--the one person who had been so abandoned by those she'd trusted--had the strength to find faith, and was bestowing that trust on him.

And perhaps, if he had come to this conclusion, his son--and the rest of the Zone--would find peace within it, too.

He'd started shadowing the Princess Royal the next day. He still questions himself and the decision he's made; still regrets the conversations that happened that night, the answers that never came.

She still has a habit of looking over her shoulder. But where her expressions were once of inevitability and doubt, waiting for him to leave, they are now serene, reborn.

As is he.

FIN

A/N 2: Because it was bothering Bee, the quote I attributed to Adora here is actually said by Az to the Witch in the miniseries. I just wanted to play up the fact that "good" and "evil" tend to be a lot more similar than we think.

Thanks for reading!